PROCOL HARUM It’s Only Realism
In the thick air of the early evening, Los Angeles wrings itself out after one of its record-breaking August heat wave days. Coldwater Canyon cuts into the hills above Beverly Hills, the luxury homes that sit back from its streets bespeaking its posh status.
PROCOL HARUM It’s Only Realism
by
Richard Cromelin
In the thick air of the early evening, Los Angeles wrings itself out after one of its record-breaking August heat wave days. Coldwater Canyon cuts into the hills above Beverly Hills, the luxury homes that sit back from its streets bespeaking its posh status. Before one of the houses, that of an A&M official, the street is lined with cars whose owners have bypassed the red-coated valet parkers who stand bored and idle in the driveway (the tips add up, you know).
Indoors, some record company people get a hot game of hearts going in a corner. A table is piled high with obscenely rich hors d’oeuvres (the mushrooms stuffed with crab meat are a real killer). Outside, next to the pool, the colored gentleman dispenses obscenely strong drinks to the guests. Procol Harum arrive and settle in.